Feathers
by DasTebbers
Summary: Assassins are tools. Whether they know it or not. They are all used by their superiors, or unwittingly manipulated by outside forces. Altaïr is no different, though it takes injury for him to realize it, and captivity to accept it.
1. Chapter 1

a/n I think I'll start off with my disclaimer this time. I don't own Assassin's Creed or characters contained therein. That's all Ubisoft. I'll even explain a bit. Everyone familiar with the game knows of the Massive Attack song Teardrop that got used in a promo? Yeah. You are. Just say you are. It makes things easier. You'll see references in this story from that song because that's pretty much where most of the idea came from. Though I will admit that there was some deviation from my original idea, and I think that works. Also, no sleight to anyone based on religion. Just following with the story of the game and history as I've dug up info on it.

So loving the umlaut I thing, especially since I figured out how to type it and not have to copy/paste it all the time. (all you apple users out there option+u i)

Later note: After the release of ACII, I did have to make some small adjustments, because I have this strange obsession with dancing around and through the canon to let my fanfic be probable in the universe. I also realize that Bloodlines starts only a month after the end of AC, but I'll just stretch the time and say everything else continues after I highjack the story for a bit. It only stretches out to about three months… so I don't throw it off too much.

Chapter 1

A woman stumbled sharply sideways, bumping him nearly off balance with her hip, and jarring his vision with her elbow as she struggled to steady both the pot perched precariously on her head and her balance, but not before spilling some of her much worked for water down his entire right side. Altaïr glared at her, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his existence, or usefulness for being a balance springboard, but she was already threading her way through the crowd, oblivious of her insult. He sighed and continued through the crowd of the square. The day was uneventful; though whether or not that was a good thing, he had yet to decide. Today was for gathering information. Keeping an eye and ear out for the rumblings of some political or religious beast rising to usurp power from recovering city. Thankfully, many people had fled before the massacre, but so many had died anyway, and those that returned had little choice but to clean up and rebuild.

He moved to the far side of the square, sitting himself down on a crate and letting the sun dry him, however slowly that happened in the chilly early winter air. No usurping beasts to report today. Just a tripling of the guards commanded by the new self-appointed leader. A merchant of some sort, judging by what he'd heard, and a local man at that. The new leader didn't have anything to fear of assassinations, not from professionals, anyway, though he didn't know it. Let him fatten the ranks of guards. It was a good influx of money into the economy, and would help the citizens forget the recent upheaval of the Christians. He couldn't help but smirk as he noticed that almost every fifth or sixth person to pass by him was a guard. Part of him wondered why a master assassin like himself would be dispatched in such a way, but he'd apparently proven himself quite effective in gathering information, and his humbled ego didn't mind it so much.

He watched the citizens as they passed, picking up snippets of irrelevant conversation. There wasn't much more information to be gathered today, but he was still a little damp, and hesitant to move from the sunny spot he was in. The crate he'd chosen for a seat was snuggled up against a hay cart, and very much out of the chill wind. Through breaks in the crowd, something caught his attention. A woman dressed in a long black robe, for robe it was, not the normal style of dress he saw women of Acre wearing had a pot strapped to her back, rather than balanced on her head. Instead, her head was covered with a small scrap of white cloth, tied neatly to cover her hair and keep it tame in the wind. He watched her for a moment as she skirted a crowd gathered at the vegetable stall, and paused to lean against the corner of a building, taking a moment to peer down the narrow alley before breaking into what appeared from this distance to be a coughing fit. Forgetting the cold, he stood and started across the square to investigate this obvious outsider. He made it halfway across when she seemed to recover from her coughing. She pulled her hands away from her face, peering around at the crowd before letting her hands drop. As she did, a haze of what appeared to be snow swirled around her from the alley. He glanced skyward. There was no snow, and hadn't been any yet this winter.

She pushed off the wall, and headed down the alley. Before he could follow, a trio of men broke away from the crowd at the vegetable stall, walking with a purpose right into the alleyway ahead of Altaïr, one of them even pausing to shoot him a warning glance. He slowed his pace, watching their retreating forms, and changed direction. He circled around the building, coming into the alley from the side at a quick clip. Before any of them even came into sight, he could hear the threats and accusations of heresy and dark magic. He stepped around the corner, a good distance down the alleyway from where they'd caught up to her. She had her back to the wall. The pot she'd carried on her back was at her feet. She held her hands up appeasingly, telling the men they were mistaken. As she looked around at the three, she looked beyond them, locking onto Altaïr's gaze and silently pleading for help. Her gaze didn't linger, so as not to tip off her very shortly would be assailants. Altaïr closed the distance quickly, triggering the hidden blade. He was behind them before they knew he was there. The left most attacker already had a blade in his side before he knew Altaïr was there. The center attacker had a blade in his neck before he realized that Altaïr was there. The third man saw Altaïr as he ripped the blade out of the first man's stomach, only to bury the blade in the second man's neck, and hardly had time to draw his blade before the woman actually shoved him. She'd put her full weight behind the shove, and Altaïr barely heard the telltale 'shink' of a hidden blade. The man staggered back from her, kicking over the discarded water pot as he did so. It shattered, and the sound of it echoed off the close walls of the narrow alley. The man stumbled backward, falling flat. He had two growing red stains on the front of his clothing.

The woman turned to Altaïr, looking no less shocked than when she'd first seen him. "What did you-" He began, but broke off as he heard more shouting down the alley.

"Guards!" She hissed, shoving him backward, "Get out of here!" He didn't hesitate at her command, instead launched himself against the wall, rebounding back with enough height to catch the second floor windows and scrabble on to the roof. He spared the barest glance back down and saw her searching the bodies for knives, and producing only two. He ducked back out of sight as an unnecessarily large group of guards flooded the alley. After a moment of initial confusion, he heard her explain away the situation of how she was attacked by three men who eventually turned on each other. The guards bought it, and inquired after her well being. Altaïr chanced a peek over the side of the building. She'd been staring skyward, and immediately snapped her gaze back toward the guards as their eyes met. "I'm okay." She said with hesitation, and a light foreign accent, but "I don't believe I want to be alone. Could I have an escort back to the market?" One of the guards agreed.

Altaïr leaned back from the edge, and sat down. Suspicious clothes. Suspicious habits. Suspicious accent. She'd seen him coming, and looked as if she knew exactly what he would do. He swore he'd heard the mechanics of a hidden blade when she attacked the third man, how else would he have been wounded like he was? Then she knew exactly where he was while she spoke with the guards. She requested an escort. Was she avoiding a second confrontation? Or avoiding a confrontation with him? He leaned over for a peek again. She was threading through the crowd of guards back toward the square. The rest were beginning to clean up the mess. He rolled onto his feet and followed her progress along the rooftops. They made it into the fray of merchants and shoppers, and the guard even accompanied her while she selected a new water pot and slipped it into the leather harness and onto her back. They spoke again, but he was too far to hear. She cast a glance directly at him, and waved off the guard. They parted ways, and after only a moment, he was sure which well she was going to use to fill her water pot.

He'd skimmed over the rooftops and made it back down to street level. The well she was heading for was often used, and there was even a small crowd there today. He sat himself down on a bench with a couple old men who were heatedly discussing the great debate of grilled fish versus fish soup. He half listened, suddenly developing a craving for some soup, and waited for the girl to arrive. Sure enough, she did, and she filled her new water pot before making her way back from whence she'd come. He followed her at a decent distance. She was heading back to the main square.

Despite the cold, the crowd was thicker than earlier, and even more so as they approached the square. He quickened his pace as she turned a corner, but as soon as he turned the same corner, she was gone. He scanned the crowd, but saw nothing but the more brightly dressed citizens. He crossed the square, taking the opposite main road out, but cutting left on the first side street and dashing up a ladder back to the rooftops. He scanned the crowd again from a higher vantage point, and spied her as she elbowed her way out of a crowd by the baker's stall. She had a small bag now, and a roll clamped in her mouth. She looked around, obviously searching, but didn't see him. She wasn't searching the roofs this time.

For the next hour or so, he watched her go from stall to stall, buying random odds and ends of foodstuffs and constantly searching the crowd. He hadn't needed to change his vantage point, and settled into a more comfortable position, trying to huddle himself up against the growing breeze while he waited for her to leave the crowds. Finally, she passed by the base of the building on which he was perched, heading down the main road with the flow of people as they shuffled along. He followed, dropping to street level on the same ladder he'd used to ascend and fell into step only a few paces behind her. She never looked over her shoulder, apparently satisfied that she'd lost him, but neither did she go anywhere. She simply circled town with the crowd, following the main streets at a leisurely pace. She knew he was following her, and wasn't allowing him any opportunity to speak with her without calling undue attention to himself.

After the third trip around town, he was getting impatient. And hungry. She had to get tired sometime, and he thought he'd caught his break when she paused at one of the intersections, but no. She moved into a growing crowd of spectators as a voice rose above the rest. It was one of the town's seers, and they were interpreting dreams for the public. Interesting method of advertising, he had to admit, though he didn't know the going rate of dream interpretation lately. He slid through the crowd until he was standing right behind her. She didn't look at him, but he was sure she was aware of him. "Getting late, isn't it?" He asked, almost conversationally, staring through the crowd at the seer.

"Ha. A little later than I thought, I guess." She said in much the same tone, though her accent curved the words. She took the hint, and started sidling out of the crowd. He was hardly a step behind her. She melted back into the flow of the street, and slid down a side street. If his memory served him, it was a dead end, and he was on high alert. There was no way she could've planned this or had time to set a trap, but he wasn't taking his chances. She walked all the way to the end of the alley, boxed in by the narrow front door of a house and turned to face him, speaking as if she hadn't just led him on a two or three hour wait and see race. "You're the assassin that fell from grace, aren't you?"

"What?" He replied intelligently. How did she know anything of the assassins, and what did she mean by fall from grace. Surely she didn't know about the Temple.

"Altaïr?" She ventured further. She looked pale in the waning evening light.

He chose not to react or respond, instead take control of the conversation. "Who are you?"

"Aisling Parishii."

"Aisling?"

"It's Celtic." She offered something of an explanation. It made sense with her accent and habits.

"And your knives?" He asked.

"Just like yours." She countered quickly, and punctuated the statement by activating both hidden blades, one on each wrist, her hands held carefully straight. She still had all her fingers to lose from a misfire of a blade.

He frowned. "Where did you get them?" She didn't answer. His frown deepened, and he clenched one fist, a trained reaction for interrogation, though he had to admit that he'd never interrogated a woman before.

She saw the motion, thankfully, and spoke in a more subdued tone. "You won't believe me." He waited for her to go on, and at length, she did. "I made them."

"What?" He asked, unable to hide the disbelief in the single word as he said it.

"Warned you." She said with a hint of bitterness in her tone, her eyes dropping to the paving stones.

He didn't like that turn in her voice, so he changed the line of questions. "And the Assassins. What do you know of them?" He kept it pretty neutral, he thought, not leading her into answers. She'd mentioned the Assassins first anyway. He mentally kicked himself for his lack of coercion skills.

"You won't believe me." She said again. He waited. She didn't go on.

"Won't I?" He challenged. He didn't know what else to do. He was about as far out of his element as he'd ever remembered being. She pulled her eyes from the ground and met his, somewhere in the shadows of his hood. He couldn't define the depths of emotion he saw there, or even pick out a single one of the roiling tempest.

"I made them." She said at length with a shuddering sigh.

His mouth opened. No sound came out. He closed it again. It didn't sound like a lie, but she didn't look any older than him, and the Assassins had been around long before he was. How could she make such an audacious claim? She didn't sound crazy, but her claim didn't strike him as exactly sane either. Whether she was wrong or right, crazy or sane, she knew more than she should. He mentally clamped down on his reflex to shank her and leave, and instead opened his mouth soundlessly again.

Then she started to cough again. They were bone rattling, deep chest coughs. She covered her mouth, turning away.

Altaïr closed his mouth again, unsure what to do about her.

Her coughing fit was shorter than the last he'd witnessed. She turned back to him, fist still clamped in front of her mouth. Slowly, she turned her hand palm up, opening the fist and blowing. Small downy feathers took to the breeze from her hand and blew skyward in the circling eddy of wind in the dead end alley.

"Feathers?" He said astutely, staring skyward after them.

"Yeah. A long running problem I've got." She said, pulling his gaze back to her as she spoke. She was backing into the door, turning a small key in the lock. "This is my house. I don't plan on going anywhere, so this is where you'll find me again. I would offer you some food or water, but you won't take it, so this is going to be goodbye for now. Tell Maria I said hey when you see her again." She paused after saying this, looking skyward for a moment. "Or not. I'll see you again before she does. Thanks for helping me earlier, Altaïr." She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. He stared at the rough wood of the door, wondering how she knew all this. Wondering who Maria was. He heard the lock turn from the inside, and figured he'd take the stranger at her word. The next meeting would be filled with a lot of questions, he was sure.

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a/n Yes! Notes at beginning and end! I usually don't do that. This one is more of a 'sorry so short' note though, because it seems a good stopping place to me. Not like I'm only uploading one chapter at a time.


	2. Chapter 2

a/n disclaimer time. I don't own Assassin's Creed or characters contained therein. That's all Ubisoft. Musical implications are Massive Attack - Teardrop. No insults for anyone based on religion.

Later note: After the release of ACII, I did have to make some small adjustments, because I have this strange obsession with dancing around and through the canon to let my fanfic be probable in the universe.

Chapter 2

"Altaïr. I've been looking for you." The new Master of the Assassins spoke as soon as Altaïr approached. A Persian man. He wasn't quite sure how much he trusted the new man, but he was a follower of the Creed, and Altaïr wasn't confident in his own leadership skills. His brief assignment in Acre was more proof of that doubt. He'd handled that girl, Aisling, like a novice. He didn't even know what to do with her, which is what he'd hoped to settle here, except that the Master had different ideas.

"I was in Acre." He said, but was quickly cut off before he could elaborate.

"And Acre is settled after the departure of the Christians?" The Master settled his portly body into a chair and turned his round and deeply lined face to Altaïr.

"Yes. There is a greater guard presence, but-"

"The guards are irrelevant in what I need. The new leader of Acre is no concern to me. There is one of our enemies hiding within the ranks of the citizens."

Altaïr didn't speak further. Something didn't sit well with him for the new Master's tone. Just as something rang true in the girl's words. Such a vague and ominous reference to 'the enemy'. What could their 'enemies' do in such a low place of power as posing as a citizen.

The Master was sizing him up as he was rolling the familiar flavor of mistrust and impending betrayal around in his mind. He recited the tenants of the creed mentally, finding a calm center in the midst of his unrest. Ultimately, the man spoke again. "Did you have something to add, Altaïr?"

He hesitated. "No. What do you need me to do?"

"Take care of a difficult mark. This is one of our enemies that has managed to infiltrate our ranks and escape with valuable information."

Somehow, that sounded familiar. Infiltrating the ranks.

"They have even slipped through our fingers numerous times. Surviving even as our master assassins return with proof of the kill."

Now that piqued his interest. No assassin marks the feathers in the blood of a body with a still beating heart. Just how could anyone escape that?

"I have no name for you, as every time they're discovered, the name is different. But the description can't be changed. Pale skin, red hair, green eyes."

Altaïr couldn't help but wonder how anyone looking like that could hide in the town of Acre.

"Accent of a northerner." The Master continued as Altaïr's mind clicked along, filing away the information. "I have faith that she won't escape your blade." He finished.

Altaïr's mind ground to halt. "A woman?" He questioned.

"Yes." The Master said, folding thick fingers across his stomach and leaning back in the chair. He'd expected this reaction. "She is the best we've seen. We'd have her in our ranks if we could."

"Do you have a name that she's used before?" Altaïr pressed, feeling that he'd met this woman already.

"We've never known her by her real name. Only the great danger she poses to us. She knows much about us. Locations. Weapons. Tactics. Names. She must be silenced. Seek her out in Acre. You're leaving first thing tomorrow." He said with a sense of finality that squelched Altaïr's desire to question further.

"Yes." He said simply, turning on his heel and leaving. He didn't bother to stop until he was already down the hill and in the small cluster of dwellings on the hillside. A few people had hailed him, but he ignored them, thinking only of slamming the door of his tiny piece of the world on the rest of it. He was quite happy to do just that. Upon slinking into his own small dwelling, he slammed the door heartily behind him, and found himself in darkness. The fire had burned low, and he tossed some fuel on the embers before sitting himself down in one of the two chairs in the one room abode. He watched the flames grow, licking round the few logs he'd added, and schooled his mind completely blank.

Then there was a rapping at the door. He ignored it. It became more insistent, and a shrill voice accompanied it. "Altaïr! I know you're in there! I saw you go in fifteen minutes ago!"

"Zada." He grunted. The old woman was persistent, he had to give her that, and she could cook. By that fact alone did he consider himself lucky to be mothered by the old biddy. She did care, and was truly a good-natured woman. She had no children of her own, and so nearly every unmarried man and woman in town was her child.

"Okay!" The shrill voice of Zada continued at the door. "You know I'm here, and so you know I'm coming in." The door swung wide, blown inward by the chill of the night, and in came the only half gnarled, middle aged 'town mother'. She kicked it closed behind her, and glared at Altaïr. "How are you going to ignore me out there like that?" She chided as she juggled a few handfuls of crocks over to the table and sat them down. "And here I brought you dinner too."

His stomach growled, and he couldn't help but laugh at her. "Zada, dinner was hours ago."

"And where were you hours ago?" She said in the same chiding tone, the smile not leaving her deeply lined and leathery face.

"Somewhere on the trail to Masyaf." He sighed, but nonetheless lifted the lids on the crocks to see what she'd brought. Sausage, no, sachicha. Tomato chicken soup with rice and lentils.

"Quit wowing it and eat." She cut into his investigation.

"Are you going to stand over me until I'm finished eating?" He smirked up at her.

"Of course not. You're a big boy." She snorted, and flopped down in the opposite chair. "I'm going to sit over here until you're finished eating."

He laughed, but accepted it as one of her mothering things, and started eating. He knew she had something to say, otherwise she wouldn't have stayed, so he got the ball rolling. "You're usually asleep by now."

"You've usually eaten by now." She countered, and didn't miss a beat. "And something's bothering you." She narrowed her eyes, and leaned over the table at him. "It's a girl, isn't it?"

He rolled his eyes. "Wishful thinking."

She nodded sagely. "Yes. Wishful thinking. You meeting a girl that can stomach you, or you ever learning how to cook. I'll take either one. Though you're easier to live with these days." A small frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as she remembered that there was a woman that could stomach him.

Missing the meaning of her frown, he purposefully stuffed his mouth full of chicken and chose not to respond. They both knew how much she loved to cook for anyone in town, and her teasing him for his lack of cooking skills was a cornerstone of their conversations. Somewhere deep inside, though, his ego stung at the mention of his sudden change in attitude. She didn't know about the incident at Jerusalem, and he was content to leave it that way. Just let her believe someone finally knocked sense into him. The old woman was careful to dance around the mention of his budding interest in an absent woman. He didn't wish her absent, but there'd still been no vague information concerning Adha's whereabouts.

"It is a girl though." She said, staring at the fire and snapping him out of his bitter thoughts. "That's bothering you." She added by way of explanation.

He crammed more chicken in his mouth and listened. She had that tone to her voice that heralded the coming of wisdom.

"Not under the circumstances that I'd want." She went on. "She won't marry you or anything."

He nearly choked. He was used to her trying to marry him off to any girl that looked twice at him, which happened enough that he was used to Zada's speech. What he wasn't expecting, though, was for her to say completely the opposite about any female prospect.

"Chew better or you'll be done in by a potato." She said sharply. "And then I would have to die a little every time I passed your grave."

He tried not to laugh for fear of actually choking on a potato. In his attempts to silence himself with food, he'd finished more than half of it anyway, and Zada rambled on.

"She'll take care of you, just like I do." She shook her head, almost sadly, "But not to marry you. Tsk. That's a shame."

"Zada.." He started, not sure how to explain that this girl she was carrying on about was probably going to be dead before the next sunset.

"Hush. Eat. Listen." She cut him off. "I said she'll take care of you. She doesn't lie, and she'll know what to do."

She doesn't lie. The words echoed loudly in his mind. She'll know what to do. Sounded like some flavor of manipulation lined up for him to fall into. He stared down at the nearly empty crocks spread out on the table, his appetite suddenly gone.

"Here now, you don't have to eat it all." Zada said, standing and clearing away the small table. She condensed the contents into one crock and placed it on the hearth by the fire. "Save some for breakfast." She swept up the empty crocks and moved for the door.

"Thank you, Zada." He called after her.

"You're really a good boy now that you've reigned in your ego." She called over her shoulder as she pulled the door closed.

He grimaced. Zada had to be the one person in the entire kingdom that would get away with calling him boy and constantly reminding him of his recent shift in manners.

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Before the sun was even up the next morning, Altaïr found himself cold and unhappy in the saddle. Talimar was moving at a decent clip, though Altaïr didn't feel any urgency in the matter. He'd be in Acre in a few more days.

After an uneventful ride, and an equally uneventful entry into town, Altaïr found himself in one of the least stealthy positions for an assassination he'd ever been in. He took a breath and pounded on the door. After a moment the door opened, the inhabitant hiding behind it. "You're early. Couldn't sleep or something?" Came the mumbled greeting from behind the door. He walked in, taking in the interior out of habit, marking exits, weapons, and threats. A door led into the back of the house, and a steep staircase to the left of the room led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. A fireplace was set in the right wall, with a table and three chairs beside it. Something was boiling away over the fire, and smelled wonderful. The door closed behind him, and Aisling glared at him, obviously just crawling out of bed, and still wearing the same clothes from last night. Well, except for the headband she'd been wearing. It was missing, and a snarl of shoulder length curly red hair that looked ready to have animal sacrifice was in its place.

Zada's advice echoed in his head along with warnings from the Master. "I'm going insane." He said.

She grunted. "That'll make sleeping difficult." She started to tame the snarl of her hair. "So you're here to kill me?"

"Ugh." He said articulately, suddenly hating himself for his ineptitude in this situation, the Master for thinking she was a threat, and Zada for thinking this soon to be corpse was the answer to everything.

"Is that a no?" She asked, sounding more awake now. "Or an 'I need to ask you something before I kill you'?"

"I need to ask you something before I kill you." He chose his option verbatim, and cringed as he said it.

"Well, come by the fire at least. I bet you're cold. It was bad last night." She said as if he'd just said he'd have some bread with his soup, and pulled a chair away from the table so she could sit by the fire. "Let's hear it."

"How did you infiltrate the Assassins?" It was as good a place to start as any.

"I made them." She said, and offered no further explanation on how that didn't work out on a timeline.

"Why did you leave?"

"I don't want to talk about that now." She said softly. "Ask me something else."

"How many assassins have come for you?"

She looked up at him, an impish grin spreading across her face. "You're the eleventh."

He frowned. "And they all came back with proof of your death."

"You will too." She said, the grin fading.

"I don't see how you're a threat." He said flatly. "I won't kill you."

"You're more loyal to your Creed than your Master." She said. "That's why I was waiting for you." She went back to trying to unsnarl her hair. "You know you have to kill me or you can't go back."

"I won't kill you." He said again.

She lowered her hands from her tangled hair to her face, and stayed that way for a long moment. "Love, Altaïr. Love is a doing word." She peeked over her shoulder and through her fingers at him, "You already did." Even as she said it, he saw her hands flex for the triggers of her hidden blades. He lunged for her wrists, hoping to pull them away so that the blades would miss, but could only catch her just as the blades sprang free of their casing, driving the steel deep into her skull. After a second, they retracted, and she slid backward off the stool. He still held her wrists, and lowered her to the floor before placing her hands on her stomach. Releasing her, he fished a feather out of his belt, staining it with her blood before tucking it back beneath his belt.

He closed the door as he left her home, wondering how long it would be before someone found her body, if anybody would. He made his way across town, wondering how he could've ever seen that coming. If there was anything he could've done. By the time he met Talimar outside the gates, he was stinging with betrayal, though he wasn't sure if he'd betrayed, if he was betrayed, or whom he'd betrayed. The feeling hung over him, and sleep for the interim days of travel was elusive. As they approached Masyaf on the sixth day, he was still trying to grasp rules of the game he was currently being manipulated and used like a pawn. He recited the tenants again, finding solace in the rules he did know, and realized that in the larger game, he might be a rook, with his skills. But still just a tool blindly following orders, both from his master, and strangely enough, from his victim.

He strode in, conveniently missing the Master, and left the bloody feather on the drawing table. He turned and was halfway to the stairs before he was called back. "Altaïr." He stopped short, not bothering to turn, not wanting to know what move was next on the board. He didn't want to be the piece being moved. "Altaïr." The Master said again. He set his teeth and turned, moving across the large room. He stopped in front of the drawing table, staring at the fat Persian man that he wanted nothing more than to shank at least a half dozen times right now. "Good work." He said. Altaïr's lip quirked into a quick sneer that disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "You have something to say?" The fat man asked.

"She was no threat. This was murder." Altaïr spat.

The Master was unfazed. "You are sure she won't be appearing again?"

"Shall I go back and raze her home and piss on the ashes to make sure?" he snarled, only just keeping his volume in check.

The fat man frowned, finally affected by the venom of his master assassin's tone. "No threat, you say?" Altaïr got the unsaid meaning_. 'If you didn't see threat in her, are you sure you got the right one?'_

"She was as much threat alive as her corpse is now." Altaïr answered the unsaid question. _'You want the corpse to have and hold and make sure it's the right one?'_ He glared at his questionable superior for a long moment.

"You have something else to say?" The fat man asked, his tone bordering on boredom.

He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, traced the tenants again in his mind, and spoke. "I have _nothing_ to say." He spat again.

"Good. Good work, Altaïr. You've saved us all." The fat man tried to retain his air of superiority and make less of the murder.

Altaïr stormed out again, finding his way home while miraculously not finding anyone on the way there, and proceeded to make order of the world in the best way he could. He cleaned and sharpened his weapons while nearly chanting the tenants of the creed.

By the time he was putting the gears and springs back in his hidden blade, the door swung open. He didn't even have to look. "Zaaadaaaaa!" he said, his tone borderline whining. "I'm going insane."

"Nonsense." Zada replied. Ever level headed and verbose.

"Exactly. Nothing makes sense." He said, slamming the casing onto the blade's housing.

"Did that girl help?" She asked, looking at him hopefully.

"Honestly?" he asked in the way he always led up to bad news with Zada.

"Honestly." She answered, and braced herself for bad news. "You killed her didn't you?"

"No." He said. She brightened immediately. "She killed herself." He finished.

Her face fell, and her mouth opened and closed a few times. Finally, she found her voice. "That's terrible. How did she know you were coming?"

"She did it while I was there." He sighed.

"Why would she do that? Waste her ever after by killing herself? If she would let you, she could've had-" Zada started rambling.

"I couldn't do it." He cut her off. "She wasn't a threat, and the innocents need not die."

"She was the wrong one?" Zada started again.

"No. She was the right one. She could answer all the questions." He said quietly.

They sat in silence, Zada still in the doorway, holding a large crock of soup, Altaïr staring at the floor and still waiting for the rules of the game he was currently in the midst of to come to him. After a long moment, she crossed the small room and placed the crock on the table beside him. She stood beside him for a moment, not expecting a reaction. Finally, she ruffled his wrinkled sleeve that rarely saw anything but the inside of his bracer. He looked up at her, not quite seeing. "It'll all make sense. Just let it settle." Zada said, her tone quite convincing. She moved to the door, hesitating before she opened it and casting a wry look over her shoulder. "And if it doesn't, then just chalk it up to a strange dream." She slipped outside, hardly letting the snow swirl in the door as she left.

"A dream." He said. Dreams were Zada's way of casting off what didn't make sense, or didn't merit the time to try to see the sense in it. He frowned. It had to make sense somewhere. Ten other men claiming success in her assassination, and she even claimed that they had succeeded. Succeeded as he had, or through some other ruse? He shook his head, clearing the images away. Generally, mortality wasn't an issue for him to see manifested, but something was just wrong about this death. He derailed the thoughts before they combined forces on his already precarious state of composure.

His mind remained blank long enough for him to extend a leg and stoke the fire with his boot. He looked back to the table, and picked up his hidden blade. He'd had it for a while, and kept it in excellent repair, but had no recollection of who they were to turn to if one broke their blade. He frowned, not liking this newly discovered gap in his knowledge. Aisling claimed to have made her hidden blades, along with the Assassins. For all he knew of the blades, she could be telling the truth, but for the Assassins, he knew that piece of history. Hasan and the politico-religious clash a few generations back. The Assassins were organized then, long before the girl would've been around. He sighed, wondering again how he was so sure the girl was telling the truth.

In his minds eye, he saw her, clear as if she were in the floor at his feet. His suspicions at no one finding her any time soon were becoming more concrete. Even as this feeling sank his stomach, he noticed that her green eyes were open, unseeing. He thought he'd closed them. Her mouth was open, the corners quirked up in the most indecipherable hint of a smile. Her neck was coated in her own blood, long since dried black, and caked on the collar of her strange robe. Beneath the gore, he couldn't make out her self-inflicted wounds. As he noticed this, he swore he saw the muscles in her neck tense just before her body undeniably convulsed, and she coughed out a mouthful of small, downy feathers. His jaw dropped. She rolled onto her side, the feathers landing delicately around and on her.

Altaïr jerked his head up, his eyes snapping open. When had he closed them? He looked to the floor at his feet. It was empty. Had he been dreaming, or was this what Zada would classify as a dream? Unexplainable.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

a/n Yes. Zada. It's actually a Syrian name that means luck. I was going to avoid naming anyone else in the story because of the whole name origin thing, but I didn't exactly picture Altaïr as much of a cook, and mother figures always round out the badasses. Muahaha! Yes, he needed to eat, especially since he had a craving for soup. Why do I have such a humorous image in my mind of a Pac-man headed Altaïr tossing chicken in? (because it's 2 am. And everything is funny then.)


	3. Chapter 3

a/n and I unclaim it all... No Assassin's Creed to make me money, or taking credit for the fabulous fashion of our champions of bleach! Ubisoft gets that credit. I will claim inspiration from Massive Attack and their beautiful song, Teardrop. (on the fire of a confession)

Later note: After the release of ACII, I did have to make some small adjustments, because I have this strange obsession with dancing around and through the canon to let my fanfic be probable in the universe.

Chapter 3

Stale bread and nearly frozen butter was a fine breakfast for Altaïr's mood, as it had been for the past five days. Everything seemed subdued somehow, the colors not so bright, the light more diffused, despite the lack of cloud cover. The sounds seemed muffled. Everything was strange, and he was struck by the memory of Al Mualim and his destructive piece of Eden. The nonreaction of his own body, bathed in the hated golden light of that piece of catastrophe, as Al Mualim gloated about peace. Surreal. All of it, and today as well. He had half a mind to check in the heavy leather pouch tucked out of the way on his belt, just to make sure that the piece of Eden was still there. He couldn't shake his disgust at being unable to destroy it. All he could do was set himself up as guardian of the deadly trinket, keeping it hidden from the weak wills of men. Himself included, he was sure.

Talimar sensed the volatility of Altaïr's mood, and held himself in check, quietly cantering down the last hill toward Acre. He halted outside the gates, and swiveled his head around to look at his master when he didn't dismount immediately. He was staring blankly, and Talimar didn't feel brave enough to rush him. The sharp whinny of another horse brought his attention around. A caravan was moving into the gates. Three carts, each pulled by two horses, and four more horses trailing behind with light loads. Talimar circled around, shouldering his way into the group at the back. Altaïr made no objection as the horse snuck him through the gates. Upon entering town, Talimar broke away from the caravan, cutting right against the buildings.

When a rather large piece of airborne pottery whiffed right past his nose to shatter on the paving stones, Talimar forgot Altaïr's mood, jumping a meter vertically and landing heavily on his rear legs, dancing backward from the attack. Altaïr was flung out from his thoughts, and nearly from the saddle. He quickly soothed the horse and dismounted, wondering how he'd gotten inside the gates of Acre. Talimar made his way back for the gate. Altaïr stared after him, wondering if the horse was coming a bit unhinged as well. He shook his head, and turned away from the gate. As he turned, he found himself face to face, mostly, with a ragged looking beggar woman nearly a head and a half shorter than himself. Unlike most that accosted him, this one looked quite gratified, until she opened her nearly toothless mouth and shrieked. "Assassin!"

He immediately dropped back a few steps from her, glancing quickly to make sure that it was his day she was ruining and not anyone else's. She continued to shriek. The guards shoved through the thin crowd. Altaïr bolted. He shoved past the screeching informant and bolted down a cluttered side street. He battered a few citizens out of his way before spring boarding off a crate, catching a narrow archer's walkway, swinging onto a short beam jutting from the side of the building and hopping to the roof level. The yells of the guards weren't far behind, so he doubted he'd lost them already. He sprinted across the roof, vaulting up to the next roof, half a story taller and bounding over the narrow alleys. He was coming to an intersection, so he took an abrupt right, loping across a narrow beam over a rather wide street. He shoved an archer face first off the roof as he passed, the poor guy didn't even see him coming. Altaïr, on the other hand, saw nearly a dozen guards coming, swarming up ladders on buildings all around him, and quickly locating their prey. He sprinted onward, looking for the break, a distraction or crowd that would get him out of this mess.

He launched himself over a larger gap, aiming for the corner of the roof on the far side of the three-way intersection. He sailed effortlessly through the air, taking pride in his skills somewhere in the depths of his humility where he'd shoved most of his ego, when a glint of light caught from the far right of his vision. A sword. A sword without a master. Airborne. Spinning. The hefty two-handed blade caught his ankle as it spun through the air, locking on with the hilt and hand guard and yanking him off course. The momentum started him in a forward spin, and the corner of the building obligingly caught him right in the chest. His breath left in a rush, smudging the edges of his vision black, while his nerves sang fractures and bruises. Before he cleared his vision, he'd slid from the stone of the roof and heading for the ground some six meters below. He caught a window ledge with his feet as he slid by, and pushed his trajectory outward away from the small iron rail rimmed flower garden below while turning himself away from the building. He'd barely reoriented himself for the next leg of his escape when a person came into his vision, and path. It was nothing but a flash of black and red, but he torqued his body to the side, trying to miss them. He succeeded in altering his trajectory for minimal harm of bystanders, but found himself nearly parallel with the ground, and only two meters from it. He twisted his body again, trying to get his feet between him and the ground. He landed heavily on his right leg, his body still mostly horizontal. It did nothing for his momentum. His body continued right to the stones, his leg only protesting with a dull snap before happily folding beneath him. His nerves hit the chorus of stinging and agony again, and he bit back a howl for it.

He'd barely settled onto the paving stones before his hood was suddenly snatched back off his head. He swiveled his head around, only to see a bloody green cloth settling over him. He started to stand, but a sharp hiss of a command stopped him. "Lay still!" He recognized the foreign lilt to the voice, and his mind skipped a thought and ground to a halt, his body happy to follow suit as his nerves hit the second reprise. She shoved the edges of the cloth beneath his body before throwing herself on top of him. He heard the approaching guards, and she started sobbing. "He's that way!" She shouted a teary accusation, and he felt her shift, apparently pointing. The guards thundered past with shouts of confusion and attack. She paused for a heartbeat longer before hooking her arms under his and tugging. "Get up. We have to get out of here." Not a trace of tears in her voice.

He struggled to his knees, trying to ignore the encore his nerves were now singing at full volume. His right leg was moving in the proper paths. No extra joints or bends, but moving it was ill advised, as it made his nerves sing at ever higher pitches. He sucked in a breath against the pain, and regretted it. "Come on!" She urged him, grabbing one of his arms and hooking it around her neck before standing up quickly. With his free hand, he pulled his hood back up. She started off swiftly down the side street, half dragging him as he limped along.

They halted long enough for her to kick the door open, and she released his arm after dragging him inside and set about bolting and barring the door. He balanced as well as he could, one leg protesting to any movement, his chest protesting to breathing, and his head still not completely caught up with his eyes. She turned and leaned against the door, sighing. Her hair was still a snarled mess, and she was still wearing the blood encrusted black robe. She beamed a smile at him, green eyes shining like a dead person's shouldn't. "I didn't think that would be so easy." She paused, her smile fading. "Easy for me anyway. I heard you pop when you hit the ground. Come on, get off your leg." She pushed off the door, moving past him and through the door to the back of the house.

He didn't move. She leaned back through the doorway, trying to figure out what was keeping him. "Why aren't you dead?" he asked, completely mystified, even though his head was slowly catching up.

"Ha." Was her response as she ducked back into the doorway. He limped after her. The back room, it turned out, was a small bedroom. Chests with a wide variety of locks on them lined the left wall. A small window set high in the back wall cast enough light for the small room. A bed was set against the right wall, a small chest beside it with a candle and cup in easy reach.

He stopped in the doorway, leaning on the frame to take the weight off his right leg, while not leaning so far as to aggravate his ribs. "Why were you out there?" He asked. She sat in front of one of the chests, working with the lock. Once it was unlatched, she looked up at him, her gaze questioning. "In the street. You distracted the guards. How did you know?" He said articulately, and grimaced at his failure of communication. She looked back at the chest and hefted it open. The inside was broken into small compartments, and a handle sticking up in the middle hinted that there were more layers of compartments beneath. Each compartment had its own small sack of roughly the same shade, barring stains. She pulled one out and stood.

"I knew you'd be there. I bribed that beggar to freak out at whoever got a pot thrown at them." She grinned as she said it. "Come on. Sit down." She tugged his shoulder, and he hobbled over to sit on the bed. She picked up the bowl from the bedside and went into the other room.

"How did you know I'd run this way?" He called after her. "I could've gone any direction. I could've grabbed Talimar and left town."

She came back, the bowl full of steaming water. "And yet you fell off the building right in front of me didn't you?" She asked slyly, sitting the bowl back on the bedside chest and opening the bag.

"Risky chance." He said, falling into the instructor mindset. "Anything could've gone wrong with that plan."

She produced some dried herbs from the bag, and tossed them into the bowl before closing the bag and putting it back in its place. "Chance. Right. One thing changes, and everything after that happens differently. If she had screamed sooner, right when I threw the pot, you would've rode right back out of town. If she hadn't kept screaming, you would've backed into the crowd by the clothier, and the guards wouldn't have found you. The guard that threw his sword? The one that escorted me a few days ago. I made a point to be friendly, so he'd swap routes with one of the other guards. He knew my house was close, so he was pretty desperate to stop you. If he hadn't thrown that sword, you would've made the jump, dropped down at the next alley, and buried yourself in the hay cart at the edge of the square. If I hadn't had that bloody green cloth, you wouldn't have been able to get away from the guards. Not on your leg. Believe me yet? I've got plenty more scenarios."

He gaped at her. She was right. Talimar was too far away by the time the beggar yelled, and she kept screaming, letting the guards get there too quickly for him to elbow into the crowd at the merchant's stall. And of course he would've made the jump. He was in fact making for that hay cart by the square. "How could you know?" he asked, completely bewildered by both the effectiveness of an obviously flawed and open plan, and her accuracy of scenarios.

"I just do. Same way I don't stay dead." She assured him and picked up the bowl. "Here drink this. It'll help with the pain."

He took it and stared at it, recalling the accusations of heresy. "Are you some sort of witch or something?"

She rolled her eyes. "Only if you're stupid enough to think I am."

He snapped his gaze back up to her. "What?"

She sighed, and spoke in a flat, exasperated tone. "You drink water or wine if you're thirsty, right?"

"I don't drink much wine." He said, bemused by the change in subject.

"But. Drinking does make the thirst go away, right?" She pressed with more emphasis.

"Yes."

"And if you're hungry, you eat, right?"

"Yes."

"And it makes the hunger go away, right?"

"..yes."

"Okay, so this." She motioned to the chest containing all the bags. "This makes pain go away. Nothing magic to it. So drink."

He took a cautious sip. It was bitter, but not so bitter and sarcastic as her tone, so he drank a bit more before changing the subject. "How are you alive?"

"Same way I can see how things happen before they happen." She said simply, and sat herself down on one of the chests across from him. "We'll give that a little bit to work and then we'll see how bad your leg is."

"What? I'll be fine in a little while. Don't worry about it." He waved her concern off.

"No." She said sharply. "You broke something, or you tore something, and you definitely broke a few ribs. I'd definitely say the building won that match."

"Hey!"

"And!" She cut into his protest. "You're going to stay here and mend until you're completely better if I have to put some stronger herbs in your water and knock you out."

"I can't do that!" He protested, rising from the bed, but before he could stand, she was across the room and planted a fist in the right side of his chest. She grabbed the bowl from him as his nerves warmed up their vocals again, and his breath went out in a rush. He sank back down on the bed, putting his head between his knees to keep his vision from going completely black. "They'll notice.. I'm gone." He wheezed.

"Who? The fat man?" She waved the idea off. "He was a few tense encounters away from setting Malik out for your blood." He sat back up, staring at her and seeking the exaggeration in her words. There was none. He leaned back against the wall, stunned by the realization. "Here." She said more softly, offering the bowl back to him. "He's going to think you dead, because Talimar is already halfway home." He drank more of the now strangely tangy herbal water, not even bothering to ask how she knew. "It's going to start trouble, you being gone." He frowned at her statement. "The incident with Al Mualim didn't go unnoticed. They know what you can do, and with you gone, manipulating the Assassins will be a much easier task. In a week, the message will go out, calling all the assassins back to the strongholds. They will mass, and be ready to march in ten weeks. Your new master is the one planning the attacks. He wants assassins in place in the governments. More than just observers. He wants to have an active role." She shook her head. "It gets bad. That's why you stay here."

"Stay here and hide?" He said slowly, the words not quite coming together. "I can't let this happen." He started to rise again, but found the effort overwhelming, and looked to her questioningly.

"Sorry." She said softly. Everything hazed as she stood, and as if through a tunnel, he barely heard her continue. "I had to.." If she said anything beyond that, Altaïr didn't hear it.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

a/n Yah! Talimar! Homage hint. As for the airborne sword of fate, heh, it took all I had for there not to be a 'wtf who throws these things?!' somewhere in that paragraph. That guard was a new recruit, I guess. Or it was Malik, cuz he's awesome like that.

Also. Yay drugs. No, I didn't bother to research herbal KO drugs, though I research names and food for the sake of regional accuracy. I even research wounds for this, checking the healing times and what can be done. Did you know that a damaged ACL is repaired with ligament grafts taken from the front of the knee and bolted into place? So we can all guess that he didn't tear his ACL!


	4. Chapter 4

a/n making use of alternate scenarios for Assassin's Creed still doesn't make the game mine. It's all Ubisoft's. Inspiration from Massive Attack, though I can't bring myself to go so far as to songfic Teardrop. Woo.

Later note: After the release of ACII, I did have to make some small adjustments, because I have this strange obsession with dancing around and through the canon to let my fanfic be probable in the universe.

Chapter 4

He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar sky and sighed, remembering most of how he got himself here. He was currently tucked under heavy woolen sheets, yet sleeping on the ground in the middle of a lush garden. His right leg was propped high, most likely on more blankets, or a few pillows, and thoroughly chilled. He struggled to sit up amid the chorus of pain from his chest, and pulled back the covers to find the source of the cold. First, he noted that he'd been relieved of his weapons, and the outer most few layers of his clothes. Second, there was a water skin strapped to his leg with a thin leather belt. He released it, and tossed the skin aside, trying to rub warmth back into the muscle of his thigh. After it was relatively warmed, he noticed the chill of the air, and pulled the blankets back around him, casting a searching glance around the garden for his belongings. There were bushes heavy with flowers and berries, trees with branches bent low under the weight of fruit. The sun shone down, but wasn't particularly warming, and he almost imagined that it flickered. His weapons were gone. He shook his head. The girl was thorough. "Aisling?" He called softly, figuring her not to be far off. She probably already knew he was awake anyway.

As if on cue, she swept into view from behind a few bushes. They flickered and nearly faded as she passed them. "Glad you're awake and not hostile." She said warmly. "Do you know where you are?"

He cast another look around before shaking his head. "No. Are we still even in Acre?"

"You've never been here?" she asked, a faint hint of hopefulness to her tone.

"No." he said, more confused by her reaction than his surroundings.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and sank down onto a chest that materialized out of nowhere. As she sat, the garden faded away as if a curtain were being pulled back. They were in the bedroom of her home. He watched it all disappear. As the last of the image faded, she stood again and crossed the room. "Here." She handed him a bowl, thankfully of food this time. She sat a second smaller bowl on the bedside chest.

"What was that?" He asked, holding the soup and staring at her as if she'd disappear too at any second. She grinned and pulled a glint of gold from her robe before tossing it in the air. He recognized it immediately. It was the Piece of Eden. "What are you doing with that?!" He yelled as he started to lunge for it. She stopped him with a palm to his forehead, shoving him back down and tossing the orb on the bed next to him.

"I didn't know you kept that on you. Imagine my surprise when I found it." She said.

"People shouldn't use this." He said, placing it on the far side of his body. He glared at the trinket for a minute. "How were you able to get it to work on me?"

"It's not supposed to?" She cocked her head to one side as she asked.

"Al Mualim couldn't get it to work, not completely."

"Oh." She said softly. "I don't know. I guess I can use it better than he could."

"What were you doing with it anyway?" He said, the tone of accusation ebbing from his voice.

"I needed to know." She said slowly, the paused. "Why you're an assassin."

"What does the Piece of Eden have to do with that?"

"I wanted you to see the garden again."

"Again? I've never seen it before." He said. Most of the plants he'd seen there, he'd never seen anywhere else, and that place seemed too perfect to exist anyway.

"That's right." She said, nearly splitting her head with a smile and clasping her hands together. "You haven't, so that's not why you're an assassin."

"What?" He asked her incredulously. "If you wanted to know, you could've just asked me, not used this thing." He motioned to the trinket that was quickly becoming the most annoying aspect of his life.

"Okay then, why are you an assassin?"

"Some things need to be set right." He said as if it explained everything.

"So a sense of duty. What's in it for you?" She asked slyly.

"I make a difference."

"No grand reward? No eternal salvation? No paradise?"

He faltered, not expecting the question to take this route. "N-no. I'll be judged for what I've done when the time comes, but I believe I'm setting things right." She leaned back and smiled, apparently satisfied with his answer. "What did the garden have to do with anything? If you created the Assassins, then you know the lies outsiders have sown about us?" He asked after a moment.

"Ask me later."

He stared at her for a long while, trying to fathom the source of her sudden relief and contentment. For her part, she'd just closed her eyes and continued grinning like a Cheshire cat. "How long was I asleep for?" He asked her at length, breathing the steam from the vegetable soup and trying to rewarm himself.

"Yesterday and last night." She let her smile fade and opened again. "I put all your weapons and clothes over here." She motioned to a dark green chest latched with two thick belts. "They're under the books and blankets, but I doubt you'll be getting to them soon. How's your leg?"

"Cold." He grunted. Her mood was light, but not elated. That was it. Previous conversation forgotten. Now she was concerned less of his spirit and motivations, and more with his wounded flesh.

"Sore?"

"Not if I don't move it."

"Good." She smiled. "You tore something really good on that graceful landing of yours. Luckily nothing broke. Nothing in your leg anyway. How does breathing feel?"

"Alright if I don't breathe too deeply."

"Ugh." She grimaced. "Try to breathe deep anyway. You broke a few ribs too, but if you just breathe shallow, you're going to get sick." He rolled his eyes at her mothering tone, reminded keenly of Zada, and sighed. "Yeah, like that." She laughed. "I guess I'll just have to annoy you to keep you healthy."

"Anything else on the diagnosis?" He asked peevishly. This was the first time he'd been bedridden from wounds in years. Granted, broken ribs, dislocated shoulders, broken fingers, sprains, strains and concussions usually didn't slow him down. Much. What was stopping him now was Aisling. He didn't doubt for a minute that she would drug him again. Was she trying to let him mend, or biding her time for some other move? Again he was struck by the feeling of being a piece in someone else's game. Aisling's game, to be exact. She was manipulative, changing her emotions to fit her point at the drop of a hat, and he was playing right into it.

"Irritability." She countered. He made a face at her. She stood up. "Go ahead and eat. I'll quit bothering you now." He glared at her as she left the room. After a moment, the sounds of her climbing the ladder accompanied the creaking of the door to the roof, and a quick gust of cold wind. He stared down into his soup, seeking answers there. Was he going to let this girl manipulate him? Use him to her own ends? Just what were her ends, and was she telling the truth about the new master, or just stalling for the drugs to kick in so he'd sleep. She'd known just how to get him to run toward her, and just where to stand to be in the way of his landing. He wondered if she'd orchestrated the extent of his injuries as well. If she could make such flawed plans work, then she was biding her time for the perfect moment to strike. He couldn't believe he accepted the thought. Strike at the Assassins. How long had she said it would be before they attacked? He couldn't call the memory forth.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

It wasn't until a few hours later that she returned. He'd already eaten, and drank whatever bitter drink she'd left for him, and was feeling reasonably better. The dull ache had faded from his chest, but he wasn't about to take that as a hint that he was well on the road to mending, not with the arsenal of herbs she had at her disposal, especially since his leg had screeched at his attempts to stand. She breezed in from the front room, collecting the few dishes and depositing another bowl of a steaming herbal infusion on the chest beside him. He was the one to speak first as she turned away. "How long am I going to be stuck here?"

She paused, turning slightly to look at him over her shoulder. "Here in this house, or there in that bed?"

He balked, not having thought of actually being bedridden for any length of time. "Uh.. in the bed." He said dazedly.

"Ha." She said, turning and heading back for the front room. "I want you there until day after tomorrow, then after that, you can walk around only if you have to." She disappeared through the doorway.

He stared after her, mouth hanging slack. "You can't be serious." He called after her.

"Yep."

The single word immediately stirred heretofore-unknown claustrophobia from the depths of his subconscious. She would make him crazy. That's how she was going to manipulate him. Promise him daylight in exchange for picking off the assassins one by one. He shook his head fiercely, dispersing the paranoid thoughts. "But-"

She swung through the doorway, cutting him off before he could protest. "You're bored already, aren't you?" He accepted the truth of the question, and nodded. "Okay, here." She went to the green chest and produced a small leather bound book. "You can read Greek, right?"

"A little." He shrugged. She tossed the book on the bed beside him.

"Good. Read some old Greek plays." She said, picking up a pot nearly the size of her torso and leaving the house completely.

"Greek plays, huh?" He asked the book as he picked it up. He hadn't taken much leisure time for reading, not plays anyway. He cracked the book open, how bad could it be?

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

Pretty bad, it turns out. He didn't read Greek nearly as well as he'd thought, and the first few pages had been pretty slow going as he had to pause at the end of each sentence to translate in his head. Then, at the end of each page, he'd start back at the top, so that the thought would be continuous. He'd made it through a couple dozen pages before he realized she'd returned. She was nudging the book aside with food. "Didn't have you pegged for such a bookish person." She laughed. He sat it on the bedside, and she picked up the bowl she'd put there earlier. "Aw, you didn't drink any of your tea."

"I wasn't feeling sore, so I didn't think I needed any more." He said

"Tea doesn't make pain go away, it just makes hot water taste better." She whined. "I love the stuff. Let me make you some fresh tea and you can try it."

He rolled his eyes and went to eating. She returned shortly with the bowl of tea. "Not a fan of cups are you?" He couldn't resist the gibe, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought it might be a harsh jab at her economic standing. Then again, not if she had books. Those definitely weren't easy to come by in the lower economic classes.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then looked down at the bowl of tea. "I guess not." Her tone hinted that she hadn't thought about it. "Big bowls and little bowls. They hold everything I need. I only have a few of each." She shrugged at the realization before she looked at him again. "You want me to get some cups?"

He laughed at how serious she took the joke. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yes." He still chuckled.

She started for the door, and stopped. "I guess if you're going to be here a while, I should probably bring the table in here so you don't have to eat by yourself." It was an idle contemplation, and she scratched in her snarl of curly hair as she said it. "If you don't mind the company." She glanced back at him. He shrugged in response, and she continued into the front room. After a bit of scuffing, he saw her back through the doorway, trying to drag the small table through the door. It was too wide. He started to get up to help her, but without turning, she spoke. "I've got it. Stay there." He settled back down again. It took her a few minutes to manhandle the table through the door, tugging it sideways at odd angles. Once she finally got it through and set up, he sat his now empty bowl on it. She stared at him blandly. "You didn't care if you had company or not, did you?" He shrugged.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

It was amazingly easy to press her buttons, and Altaïr found himself laughing more in the past couple days than he had in a long while. She could flush nearly as red as her hair, and had taken to throwing food at him when it suited her. It had led to the demise of only two unfortunate bowls. After that, along with the fit she pitched at the broken dishes, he decided it would be better to catch it than dodge it. A couple times, though, he did push her too far, and she had no reservations whatsoever about coming right up to him and planting a fist or foot in his still tender ribs. At those times, he wondered what exactly kept her from staying dead, and was sorely tempted to shank her, if he'd had his blade, that is.

"You keep it up, and I'll cut you off." She snarled from the doorway, shaking the now empty bowl of painkillers at him.

"Go right ahead." He folded his arms and turned his nose up at her. "I'm not really hurting anymore anyway."

"I can fix that." She muttered as she stormed out of the house. He couldn't help but chuckle at another small victory. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the humor to fade to boredom. Over the past few days, the furniture had migrated toward the bed, and most of it was within his reach. She'd left a bowl of fruit on the table, his book on the bedside chest along with yet another bowl of tea, and the green chest that she seemed to like sitting on right next to bed. If he remembered right, his things were inside. He leaned over and unlatched it.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

"Hey, do you need-" Aisling stuck her head in the bedroom door as soon as she returned home. She froze as metal buried itself in the doorframe hardly an inch from her face. Slowly she turned her head, taking in the knife, and the half dozen other knives, jutting out from her wall. She looked to the other side of the doorframe, and saw more of the same.

"I need a real target." He said, pulling another knife from the chest beside the bed. "Glad you're back." And he let it fly. She barely ducked it, though as an afterthought, she realized that it was too high to hit her anyway.

"You're out of knives." She said blandly. He reached into the chest, paused, rummaged a bit, leaned over and looked, and turned back to her with a look like she'd taken his last cookie. He didn't dare ask for them back after his last stunt, but it had been so entertaining. She smiled as the fun fell out of his game and repeated her earlier question. "Do you need anything besides your knives?"

"No." he said miserably.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

a/n by the way.. he's reading the Prometheus trilogy. (Prometheus the Fire-Bringer, Prometheus Bound and Prometheus Unbound.) Sorry for random snippets. The whole, 8-10 week healing process would drag this story out. I fear that the next chapter may be nothing but snippets, but we'll see.


	5. Chapter 5

a/n Ubisoft is the target. Assassin's Creed is the reason. Massive attack is the artist. Teardrop is the gentle impulsion. This is my fic.

Chapter 5

"I said don't get up unless it's absolutely necessary!" Aisling said somewhat menacingly, looking ready to brandish her broom as a weapon.

"Trust me. It's absolutely necessary. If I stay in that bed much longer, I'm going to go insane." Altaïr said as he rocked himself onto his feet. His right thigh complained at the motion, though it had been complaining at any motion over the past few days. She went back to sweeping her rather large pile of dust, debris and feathers toward the front room, apparently not seeing much more reason to fight with him about it. She'd been coughing pretty frequently, and if not for the feathers she continually hacked up, he'd question if she were sick. He walked gingerly to the front room, waiting for Aisling to pass through with her growing pile of feathers. "What do you do with those feathers anyway?" He finally asked, leaning on the doorway and stretching his legs.

"Sift out the dust and sell it to clothing and furniture makers." She said as she scooped up the pile and dumped it all into a basket. "How's your leg?"

"Stiff and sore." He said, now stretching his back despite the protests of his ribs. "But better than it was."

"Well, that's an improvement. Don't overdo it." She said as she kicked the basket to the door. "Since you're up, though…" she moved to the fireplace and dipped her finger in a large bowl of water. Apparently satisfied, she picked it up and deposited it in Altaïr's hands before she disappeared back into the bedroom. "Here, wash yourself if you insist on being up and about." She draped a rag over his arm and dropped a chunk of soap into the bowl. "More water in the barrel." She nodded toward the barrel in the front corner. "And pour it in the gray pot when you're done, unless you feel like climbing up on the roof to pour it on the plants." He looked ready to agree to the latter, but she gave him a sharp look emphasizing her sarcasm, and he stayed silent. Confident that he wouldn't be poking his head out on the roof, she picked up her basket and backed toward the door, but paused, frowning as she spoke. "I know it's not exactly a bath house or anything, but I don't think that it would be very wise for you to be out and seen. Anything is better than nothing?" Her tone was quite apologetic.

"Yeah." He reassured her, smiling broadly. Honestly, he had been feeling quite foul since he'd crawled out of bed that morning, but didn't quite know how to broach the subject. Mercifully, she'd approached it first, and saved him the trouble. "I appreciate it. The throwing knives are a sign of my gratitude."

"Pff. Your gratitude is getting better aim." She rolled her eyes, the problem apparently a nonpoint. "When I get back, I'll pick up all the bedding and everything to wash." He didn't respond right away, so she continued. "I picked up some clothes that should fit you. They're in the chest with the rest of the clothes." She grinned. "Did you think I'd let you stretch out my clothes?"

"I'd figured you'd planned something." He sniped at her.

"Ha." She made a face. "You figured right. I've always got something planned." She said before sweeping out the door.

He laughed. She was right, and he knew it. She did seem to have something planned for every scenario that could come up.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

She returned only long enough for them to exchange cursory barbs and to collect all the clothing and bedding before disappearing again. He rummaged through some of the chests and found some sheets with which to remake his bed. That done, he sat and rested. His leg was aching fiercely from the little bit of exertion of the morning. He felt better for being clean, and the pale gray woolen outfit she'd gotten from who knows where was quite a bit warmer than his own clothes. He leaned back against the wall, letting his legs dangle off the bed. He stared at the walls of the ever-shrinking bedroom. At first, it was just over three meters square, now it seemed much smaller. He snatched the book she'd given him. Prometheus' woes always seemed to take his mind off his own.

Unfortunately, the past three days that he'd been there had offered him little entertaining alternative to reading, so he only had a few pages until completion. Boredom overwhelmed him, and he flopped over sideways. Claustrophobia continued to nibble at him, and he found himself calming his unsettled nerves on many occasions with silent recitation of the creed while he planned his escape. The most obvious solution would be to sneak out when she was gone, but it was likely that she would somehow see it coming with her freakish ability to predict what was going to happen. Second option, he could knock her out, or kill her, which didn't seem to count as murder with her inability to stay dead, though his conscience didn't much like that idea. He could crack one of her few remaining bowls over her head. That would be insult to injury when she came to, especially since she was making a concerted effort not to throw her dishes at him anymore. It was questionable whether or not her skull was thick enough to take the impact without her losing consciousness, and he didn't want to have to resort to breaking furniture over her head as well. Some of those herbs of hers would probably knock her out. They'd worked well enough on him, but he didn't know which to use, and imagined all sorts of gruesome outcomes of using the wrong herbs or combination of herbs.

And that's where Aisling found him when she returned, dangling his legs off the side of the bed and his head off the bottom. The door slammed, heralding her return. A solid thud followed shortly thereafter, and she walked into the room with a small mattress slung over her back. She dropped it unceremoniously in the floor. He didn't move to see what she was up to. "Feeling less filthy?" She said as she started rummaging through chests.

"Yeah." He grunted.

"Good. Didn't know you shaved your head yourself." She said, peering sideways at him from where she was elbow deep in one of the chests.

He scrubbed his hand over the short stubble of hair left on his head. "Usually don't, but it was getting too long.

"Starting to curl, eh?" She grinned. He didn't comment. She stood, kicked the chest closed, and pulled back the blanket on his bed, apparently finding the bedding she'd been searching for and making a noise of annoyance.

"So what about those herbs you've got?" He said as a complete change of subject.

She was rifling through another chest. "What about them?" She asked distractedly.

He let the question hang in the air as she apparently found more bedding and set about wrapping the new mattress. "Which ones kill pain?" He said at length.

She stopped. He heard her stand up. "You're hurting again?" Altaïr suddenly found the wall very interesting when stared at upside down and wisely chose not to answer. "I told you to take it easy!" She chided him, but snapped open the chest of herbs anyway. He was up and across the room, leaning over her shoulder before she even heard him move. She glanced up at him for a moment, figuring out the reason for his sudden interest. "Okay then." She motioned to small labels affixed to the rear of each compartment. There were five across, and four down. "They're all labeled, both their home and bag." She rattled off a few names, and he nodded. "Okay, these," She pointed to the rightmost column of compartments. "These are the painkillers. This one," She pointed to the largest bag furthest back. "Works best if you mash it up, mix it with water and put it directly on a wound. Don't drink it or eat it. It'll make you sick. These two," She pointed to the next two. "You can put in water and drink, and if it's really bad, you can mix them together, and sleep right through it, but be careful not to mix too much, or you'll kill somebody. Last." She pointed at the box closest to the front. "This one works best if you eat it, but you can put it in water too. Makes it go down a little better, and you can mix with the other two drinkable ones without any major loss of consciousness." She finished the short lesson and looked up at him, making sure he understood at least the basics of what she'd said. He nodded slowly, filing away the information for later. Satisfied that he understood, she asked, "So which one do you want?"

"Um. Wow." He said, somewhat surprised at the spouting of information that only a few questions brought forth. "I guess that one." He pointed to the front most painkiller."

"Good." She nodded and slid the bag open, pulling out a large pinch. "This much for someone your size, half that for someone smaller than me." She said as she stood up and went to add it to water. He glanced across the variety of herbs once more before returning to the bed to sit. She returned shortly with a small bowl of water and herbs. "Here. Be sure to eat them too. It'll work great."

"Yeah." He grunted, taking the bowl and holding it for a minute to warm his hands. "Tired of sleeping on the floor?" He nodded toward the new mattress in the floor.

"Yup. Didn't see you offering up the bed." She snorted.

"Huh. I thought you didn't want me out of the bed until today." He smirked and took a small sip of the infusion. It was painfully sour, and he made a terrible face. "Ugh. Thanks for the warning on that one."

"That was for the throwing knives." She laughed.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

When she'd realized that he'd finished the book, Aisling spoke almost exclusively in Greek for the next couple weeks, and produced another, thicker book for him to read. He'd made much better progress with it, but being able to be up and about made reading less desirable of a past time.

Exercises also passed time, and reminded his muscles that they had a lot more potential than he'd been calling forth from them in the past weeks. Unfortunately, it didn't take much to aggravate his leg or ribs into aching again, and he didn't hesitate to mix up his own painkillers.

Despite his much-improved mobility, Aisling demanded that he stay indoors, and he wondered if he'd burst into flames when he got out into the sunlight again. He continued taking shots at her with throwing knives, grazing her now and again to spark her ire and provide some entertainment. Once she'd figured out his motivations, she started getting creative in ways to entertain him. First came a sack of ceramic tiles painted with designs that were set up in specific patterns then removed in pairs. Once she taught him how to play, he managed to entertain himself with that for a while. When he got frustrated with it, however, he took to throwing the tiles at her too. Often, she would catch them and send them right back at him, which usually escalated to flying fruit as well, which he countered by intercepting the fruit with knives, or his dagger, if it happened to be within reach. He couldn't bring himself to question why more than half of their interactions either consisted completely of, or ended up in hostility. Somehow, he found it comforting that he had an outlet for his frustration at being locked inside.

Plans of escape had failed when he tried to drug a small batch of soup she'd made. She had paused, spoon nearly to her lips, and smelled it. Ever so slowly, she had turned to face him, her expression suspicious, and then she slid the bowl over to his side of the table before standing and fetching a fresh bowl for herself. "Since you decided to season it to your tastes." She'd told him. At that point, he was only able to resist the urge to stab her in the face because he had no blade with which to do the stabbing.

She took the herbal experiment good naturedly, apparently receiving it as a desperate cry of boredom, and came home from her next trip with an instrument of some sort. She called it a lute; he recognized it as an oud, but neither really saw fit to argue the point. He found a comfortable position for it and strummed a few dissonant chords before she plucked it from his grasp and turned it around, saying something about needing more fingers on one side. He stared at her until she found something else to do, then turned it back around and continued to figure it out.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

Another eight days and he was quite comfortable with the instrument, nine fingers aside. Aisling even paused in her daily bustle to listen to one of the melodies he'd put together, and didn't bother to heckle him about it.

When music didn't suit his mood, he'd entertain himself with the random odds and ends she'd brought in, or continue reading of an ill founded war. When even that didn't suit, and she was out of the house, he'd abandoned all respect for her privacy and merrily rifled through the nearly two dozen chests she had piled along the wall of the bedroom.

She didn't have much more of an assortment of clothes than she did dishes, and somehow, that didn't surprise him. He'd uncovered some odd scrolls with intricately detailed and brightly colored scenes of nature and odd architecture. They were packed in a black chest with a large amount of feathers, apparently for protection.

Stuffed in a small gap between two larger chests, he found a smaller chest hardly thirteen centimeters on the longest side. It contained an assortment of coins in a thin leather bag. Some, he recognized, others had languages on them that he couldn't begin to place. Some were somewhat shiny, others worn, and others still looked like they'd been hammered by fist or horse's hoof into a barely round shape.

His real treasure of a find, however, was almost overlooked. He found the chest containing his clothes, and almost passed it over since he'd already retrieved all of his throwing knives out of it. He did give pause, and dug a little deeper, finding two other books at the very bottom underneath his clothes. One was a thicker and well-worn book that smelled quite earthy. It was full of notes and drawings of plants. Many of the herbs she'd rattled off before were listed in it, including drawings of what plants they came from. The other book was small, blue and bound with a single thin belt. He took them both and moved into the front room.

The table had found its way back by the fire since he was up and about now. Altaïr was always looking for an excuse to be out of that bedroom, even if there was only one other room as an option. He tossed the books on the table and started leafing through the book on herbs, hoping to find some magic elixir to get him out of here without Aisling knowing what was going on.

She breezed in the door with a small bag, most likely of food, in hand. "Hey." She tossed the bag in a basket by the fireplace and warmed herself in front of the fire. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore." He grunted, not even looking over the top of the book at her. When she didn't prattle on further, however, he did take a peek to see what was the cause. His eyes flicked quickly from her shocked and visibly pale face to the cause, the small blue book on the table. "What?" He couldn't help but needle.

She sank into the other chair, still staring at the book. After a moment, she shook her head, clearing the shock away and looked at him. "I bet you've got some questions."

He stared levelly at her, thinking quickly to avoid destroying this golden opportunity. As nonchalantly as possible, he picked up the book, unlatched the small belt and leafed through a few pages. He feigned interest, and flipped a few more pages, looking desperately for something in the book he could actually read. It all looked like vertical lines of intricately drawn characters more complex than anything he'd ever tried to read. Now, with nothing to go on and no idea of what could be so horrifying in this book, he tried to figure out the safest question to get her started talking so he could glean the next few questions from her answer. He took a slow breath, thanked his stars that his interactions with Aisling over the past weeks had honed his verbal skills, and guessed. "So that's it then?"

Her face twitched momentarily into a more remorseful expression before falling blank again. "Yeah. I said you wouldn't believe me that I made them." He stared at her levelly, having nothing to work with from that answer, and hoping that she would go on. She sighed. "Hassan was a good man. He did great things, and saw how the smallest change in the present could make the future so much better or worse. He actually listened."

"How could you have known him?" Altaïr jumped right on the train of thought at the mention of Hassan. "It's been a few generations."

"Ha." She responded in that familiar flat tone of a laugh, worry still in her eyes. "And I've been around probably nine hundred years." His jaw dropped as she said it. "In the grand scheme of things, he really hasn't been gone that long."

"How?" He put a lot of meaning and context into that single word.

"Same way I don't stay dead. I just haven't changed since I got about this age. Same reason I see things." She said, sounding somewhat confused by the situation herself.

"And just how do you see things?" He pressed in a new direction, hoping for a better explanation than she'd already given.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just do. Big things come to me, but not really in detail. If I try, I can bring out the details. If I try harder, I can change things leading up to it and see what will make the outcome different, but that takes a lot longer. My plans are usually better fleshed out than the one that got you here, but I really didn't have too much time to test it."

"Then what you said about the Assassins? It wasn't just to distract me?" He asked, suddenly dreading that her statement held more truth.

She nodded slowly. "A little over six weeks and they'll make their move."

He frowned. "If all he wants is men in the government, why is he marching like an army?"

"Remember how I said big things come to me, but not with detail?" She said, a sly smile sneaking across her features. "That was one of them. I've spent a little time and looked into it more. I was wrong. He doesn't want men in the government. He's going to have them all killed, and step into the position himself, appointing assassins as necessary." He started to stand. "Wait." She said, holding a hand out. "You believe me?"

He settled back into the chair. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Same reason you don't stay dead."

She nodded, understanding that she wasn't the only one who acted in the face of the unknown. "And you're alright with this?"

He shrugged. "From when I first met you in that alley, I had the feeling that I was only a game piece being moved by someone else. Now I'm pretty sure it was you in control. Why fight it? It's only gotten me a few broken ribs and leg injuries."

She grimaced. "I'm really sorry. If I had more time to plan.."

"Don't worry." He waved her apology off. "What do you need me to do?"

Hope dawned in her eyes, and she smiled. "You wait. Wait and heal. You should be good enough by the time they're ready to move to act."

"And what will I be doing?"

She grinned maliciously. "You get to kill the fat man." He returned the grin, and she continued. "Right in front of the rest of the Assassins. He'll be giving the final speech before they move."

"And what about them?"

"What about them? Most of them don't support the idea, but none of them have the nerve to step forward, and they definitely won't have the nerve to stand up to you. Especially not after what happened with Al-Mualim."

He frowned. "Sounds like a gamble."

She leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Altaïr, and I refuse to mourn your death."

A cold feeling spread through him as she said it, but he ignored it. "If you say so. I'll believe you."

She smirked. "Good. Do you have any questions about it?"

"I have a few questions, but not about this endeavor."

"Okay. Maybe I can answer them." She said hesitantly. "What are they?"

"First. Why did you leave the Assassins? Second. The garden."

She sighed and frowned deeply, averting her eyes to stare into the fire. "They're the same question." Altaïr held his tongue, knowing that she didn't need to be prodded into further explanation. She swallowed a few times, still staring at the fire, and he swore he saw tears gathering in her eyes as she finally continued. "After Hassan died, he appointed Kiya Buzurg. I have to admit, he was a tactical genius, and amazing at developing the fortifications, irrigation, but he didn't believe anything I said, and made it pretty obvious that he wanted me gone. Out of respect for the late Master, I guess, he didn't have me executed or exiled, just ignored me. I guess he had to keep up good appearances. Other assassins still spoke with me, and listened to my advice of things happening."

Regret lined her face as she paused, watching the fire burn. "After a little while, I saw it coming. The new recruits. They were younger than most, more impressionable. He brought them from the strongholds all over. In strict secrecy. I don't think anybody noticed them from be. He isolated them from the other assassins, and me, claiming some new training. I ignored it. I knew he would use them to get rid of me. I accepted it. If I went ahead and left, he would just send them after me later. Then I found out about the second coming of the Christians. They were going to march on Jerusalem. So many were going to die. I couldn't stand by and let it. I tried to tell him about it."

She was quiet again, her eyes no longer seeing the fire. Altaïr was quiet, unsure how to ease her pain at the memories. She shook her head slowly, and continued. "I found him in the garden. It was walled off from the rest of the fortress at Alamut, and recently built. He was poisoning their minds with garbage of paradise promised if they died in his service. I walked right into them. About two dozen. He took one look at me and named me their first mark. I was already in the middle of the crowd. I was dead before the fifth one landed a blow. They threw me off the tower into some of the newly irrigated forests. A fitting funeral, I guess. Good that they didn't bury me. When I woke up again, I knew your name. I knew then that you were the one to fix all this." She stopped short, apparently not wanting to say more.

"I couldn't have even been born yet." He commented awkwardly after she didn't speak for long while, not sure what to say. She looked at him, the regret lingering in her eyes. It unsettled him. "What?"

"You were the one to fix all this." She repeated. "But you weren't going to unless I nudged you into it."

"Nudged?" He said suspiciously.

She closed her eyes and turned away, whispering softly. "The Temple of Solomon."

Realization rolled in with crushing force. She'd done something that day. He couldn't guess what, but in the end, it meant that she was the one to set up events to let his arrogance destroy his life. He was still staring blankly at her. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to be angry. But he wasn't. He couldn't. He accepted that it was only a matter of time before his ego and disrespect for the Creed destroyed him. Since Aisling orchestrated his destruction, it meant that it held a purpose, and she'd probably orchestrated his restoration as well. Somehow, he was comforted by the realization that things weren't out of control, and apparently never had been. "So." He said at length, leaning back in the chair. "Is that all the rules of the game, or are there more I should know about?"

Her gaze snapped back around to him. "And you're okay with all this?"

He shrugged. "I can't change it now, can I?" A very esoteric observation. "But I can change the future, and you're the only one that knows enough about it to know what changes need to be made."

She sighed in relief, and smiled broadly. "I couldn't have even predicted this kind of change in you, Altaïr."

He shrugged again. "I found peace, I guess, in a dream."

She chuckled. "Glad you could do that."

"One more question."

"What now? You've covered all the relevant bad memories for me."

He slid the small blue book across the table to her. "What does that even say?"

Her smile faded. "What?" She breathed in utter disbelief.

"I can't even start to read it."

"What?!" She screamed three times louder.

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a/n This is actually a second draft of this chapter, being that I idiotically saved over it with chapter 6 and didn't realize it until the next day. I'm not so computer savvy to be able to recover the lost writing. Bleh. What does it matter, nobody ever even saw it before I lost it anyway. I guess this is just a eulogy for my poor lost time of writing it.

The second book he's reading is the Cyclic Epics, which are the poems and stories surrounding the story of the Trojan War. I'm sad that most of them are only fragments today, and most of the information comes from the Iliad and the Odyssey today.

Random entertainment… Mahjong for the win! Oud. Snirk! I blame Kaxen. (askalty . smackjeeves . com)

No insult intended based on religion…

Later comment: Went back and did some research. I realize that AC2 points out the long reaching history of the Assassins, but it doesn't seem like an organized event, and as far as Aisling knows, she did make them, or at least organize them. She hasn't found out yet how far reaching they are, or the implications of the pieces of eden.


	6. Chapter 6

a/n Ah… Assassin's Creed. Many claim it to be crack. I agree, and so I write, but Ubisoft makes the money. How sad. Teardrop makes a good soundtrack, and Massive Attack makes the music. Yay for all.

Chapter 6

"Ugh. I don't want to go out today." Aisling whined. "It's going to be a bad day."

"Then don't." Altaïr said from the floor where he was trying to exercise despite the limited space.

"No.." She sighed. "I have to." She strapped both of the hidden blades on her arms, as she did every morning. "I'll miss out on the rice if I do."

"The rice?"

"Yeah. They're going to run out today because the shipment is late. Some storms or something outside the bay." She netted her red hair beneath a white cloth, wrapping it tight and tucking in the strays. "I need rice. I have a craving."

"Whatever suits you then." He grunted as she stepped over him toward the door. "Oh, hey. Can you bring back a couple apples? We're out."

"Only because you use them for target practice." She shot back. "But yes, I will."

And she was gone. She'd made herself more scarce in the past few days. It was only four days until he was to go back to Masyaf, and he'd been preparing. He was trying to convince his muscles that he hadn't just taken two months off, and had been literally climbing the walls using well-sunk knives as handles. Apparently, he was driving her nuts with it, or she was nervous about the whole ordeal.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

She was gone most of the day, which was unusual, and he helped himself to whatever was in the stockpot over the fire. Generally she came home to eat. A few times, he was tempted to go out and hunt her down, but she'd already laid out the course of events that would lead up to the reclaiming of the Assassins, and had driven the point home of what would happen if he were recognized by anyone before the day.

Night was falling when she came staggering back in, dragging a large sack, presumably of rice, and covered in bruises and blood. "What happened?" He snatched the bag from her, threw it into the food basket by the fire and manhandled her to sit and rest while he rummaged for what was left of the painkillers in the chest. What a role reversal this was. He couldn't get over the thought as she delicately prodded at her black eyes, searching for broken bones.

When he brought two bowls, one for her to drink, the other filled with a mash of salve for her wounds, she spoke. "The twelfth and thirteenth." He stared at her for a moment, then remembered that he was the eleventh assassin to come after her. She took a long drink of the painkillers.

"Two?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes. They were looking for me, but didn't think they'd find me." She said as she sat the now empty bowl aside. "Maybe some water to wash up?" She pushed him into motion, and he fetched a larger bowl of water. When he returned, she was rummaging in the chest by the bed, and pulled out a small leather pouch before closing it again. Still sitting on the floor, she took the large bowl from him and sat it on the chest. From the pouch, she produced a threaded needle, and, staring intently at her reflection in the water, proceeded to sew up a long gash running from just below her right eye downward to the curve of her jaw line.

"Interesting method of washing up." He said, watching her work. She wasn't much worse for the wear of taking on two assassins. He wondered idly how much of a challenge she would've been for him if she hadn't been so willing to be killed.

"I don't have a mirror." She said between pricks. Probably two dozen tiny stitches later, she dipped a rag in the water and dabbed the blood off her face. It turned out that most of the blood wasn't hers at all. Aside from the gash and a split lip, her face was only bruised. She smeared a bit of the salve on her stitches and rolled up her shredded sleeves. Nicks and notches ran up both of her bracers, and at her elbows were a handful of shallow gashes where she'd deflected blades onto her flesh. She applied salve to them as well.

"What were they armed with?" He couldn't curb his curiosity, now that she had tended to her worst wounds.

"Everything." She said. "Knives, short swords, long swords, hidden blades, and I think one had a crossbow." She scratched her head and thought, wincing as she found bruises there as well.

"What will happen when they don't return?" He asked, worried that the delicate line of her plans might have been thrown off course.

"They won't return until the day of the attack. They were here to set up bombs as a distraction." She said, and grinned at him.

He caught the meaning of the two assassins returning, but stopped on one detail. "Bombs? This far in advance?"

"They were delivering them. Their delay in returning won't cause a second thought."

He shook his head. "How could they leave such an easy entry for us?"

"Because we are both dead." She said. "And nobody mourned us."

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

A hard ride of four very short days brought them back to Masyaf, walking right through town in the early morning light. She'd produced her own white and red ensemble, though dated, and donned it for the occasion. He was hardly surprised that she'd kept it, and if he looked hard enough, he could find all the tiny stitches of countless tears inflicted the day of her exile from the Assassins. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of soap had removed the blood.

As they passed his home, Zada happened to be slipping quietly out his door. She seemed subdued, but her sharp gaze locked onto Altaïr and picked up the subtle shake of his head urging her not to speak. Instead, she assessed his accomplice, and gave an approving nod. They wound ever upward on the narrow, barely paved streets of the hillside town, pressing toward the stronghold. Once inside the gate, they were in a sea of white clad bodies. All the assassins gathered from far and wide more than filled the courtyard.

They followed their plan. She eased her way into the crowd, making for the doors. He cut right, climbing the ladder up into the tower. From that vantage, he scanned the crowd. He recognized familiar faces, but they were interspersed with strangers, hopefully bound by the same Creed, and not corrupted by the new leadership. He doubted they'd had time to change the hearts of so many fiercely dedicated men. He wasn't alone in the tower. Others had climbed the ladder for a better view of the coming speech. He waited, recanting the creed in his mind in as many languages as he could translate.

He felt exposed. Any of these men could recognize him at a moment, and each one was a potential blade. The fortress would be as difficult to escape in hostile circumstances as it would be to infiltrate. Aisling had assured him that the assassins wouldn't be hostile to his actions, but as a backup, or to calm his worry, she was to make her way to the balcony with the piece of Eden to soothe or distract them, whichever was necessary. He waited.

The fresh air of the outside was exhilarating after the two months of confinement to her cramped house. He breathed deeply and could smell the coming spring. He also felt the tightness in his chest that had replaced the pain in his ribs. More muscles he would need to stretch out. He flexed his leg. It had no remaining effects from the damage he'd done to it. He waited.

The door to the outer wall opened. The fat man waddled his way out from the other parapet of the front of the fortress, followed by four assassins, two on each side. He could easily pick out Aisling from the slight limp. She was still favoring her right leg after the attack. Her cheek had lost the angry red coloring, and her eyes were more green than black now. She didn't look like she was in any condition for what they were attempting, but who was he to argue? He'd gone out with worse wounds, and they were simply out of time. The master approached the railing, and greeted the Assassins gathered outside the gates. A collective cheer answered him.

Altaïr made his move, he swung outward around the door on the tower, and launched himself toward the wall. It was a long jump, his mind chided, but there was no better vantage point. No better access. He sailed through the void, counting the beats of his racing heart as the distance closed between himself and his target. He snapped out his blade, leading his descent with it. It slid neatly behind the master's collarbone, and the force of impact rocked the fat man backward. Altaïr landed with both feet on the man's girth, feeling bones give at the impact. His gaze went skyward to his attacker, and as he locked eyes with Altaïr, understanding clicked into place. He understood what it was to be on the other end of a blade of an assassin. Understood how dire his miscalculations had been. Understood the Creed, and the ramifications for breaking it. Understood, and came to terms with his death.

Altaïr stood slowly, his eyes rising to see Aisling hanging back behind three assassins, hands on their swords. They didn't make a move. He turned to the crowd. Hundreds of eyes stared up at him. There was no collective gasp. There was no collective outcry of rage. There was nothing. They weren't going to attack. Aisling had been right, but now what? From somewhere in the middle of the crowd came a cry of triumph. He picked out the source by the single arm raised in the crowd. Malik. Then others took up the cry until it grew to a deafening cheer that easily outdid the cheer of greeting only moments before.

Altaïr stood at a loss. Before, his ego would've reveled in this sort of reaction, but now, he didn't know what to do with it. He glanced over his shoulder at Aisling. "Now what?" He said just barely above the din.

She grinned. "Now? Master," She emphasized the honor, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

He shook his head slowly, realizing just what she'd called him. He raised his hands to silence the rabble, knowing they had to be calmed. Silence fell almost immediately, and hundreds of eyes stared up at him expectantly, waiting for the new orders. He took a deep breath, and shouted to the crowd. "We will not be marching on the cities." Another cheer erupted. She'd been right about no one supporting the idea. He wasn't sure if it qualified as spinelessness, or abject devotion to their leaders. He continued when they'd quieted. "Those of you not from Masyaf, please enjoy our hospitality." That said, he turned away from the railing amid the shouts and cheers that erupted once again. Stopping at the body of their former master, he looked up at the other three assassins. They bore no signs of hostility or resentment. "Burn the body." He ordered, and stepped around it to go inside.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

Aisling leaned on the doorframe of the small stable, saying nothing as Altaïr cinched the saddle tight on Talimar, who had indeed returned to Masyaf. A small smile played across her lips, and she finally spoke as he mounted the horse. "I really couldn't have seen all this coming from you."

"Me either." He grunted as he nudged Talimar into a quick jog past her. He passed the gates of Masyaf, reveling in the open spaces again. He needed them to clear his head and digest what had just fallen into his lap. Aisling didn't warn him that this would be the result. He'd been ready to fight his way out, but out to where? He had nowhere else, but he didn't feel ready to lead. He sighed, knowing that whether he felt ready or not, he was going to lead the Assassins, but for now, he had some open air to spread out his thoughts.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

a/n I'd already started this chapter by a large chunk before I realized the demise of chapter 5, so I had a little hiccup in my planning. I was also going to cut this chapter off right before the attack, but it would've been so painfully short, so we kinda wrap things up.


	7. Chapter 7

a/n Assassin's Creed/Altaïr = Ubisoft

Teardrop = Massive Attack

Nothing = Me

Later note: After the release of AC2, I did have to make some small adjustments, because I have this strange obsession with dancing around and through the canon to let my fanfic be probable in the universe, even if the time between AC and AC:B has to stretch a few months longer.

Chapter 7

Night fell, and Aisling watched Talimar limp slowly into Masyaf without a rider. She frowned, and held out a hand to touch his shoulder as he passed, going back to the stables. "Don't worry." She assured the horse as he cast a tired glance at her. "We'll go get him. You get some rest."

She hopped off the fence where she'd been sitting, heading up through town to the stronghold. Amid the crowded celebration of new leadership, she sought out Malik, and pulled him aside, convincing him to follow her out into town where it was relatively quieter. "I need you to go get Altaïr."

"Go get him?" Malik asked, thoroughly confused. "From where?"

"From one of the valleys on the road leading south." She explained, only mild urgency seeping into her voice.

"He's a big boy." Malik reassured her, clapping one hand on her shoulder and giving her a little shake. "He'll come back."

"Talimar's already back."

His smile faltered. "Already back?"

"Limped all the way home."

His smile faded completely. "Who are you?"

"Aisling Parishii. I'm the one that brought him back here."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Go find Altaïr. If he's dead, bring the body back. If he's alive, kill him, then bring the body back." She said in a firm tone.

"..kill him?" Malik's voice faltered in his confusion.

"He won't live long anyway, you'll be doing him a favor. Trust me. You'll see when you get there." She said more softly.

"How can you know?"

"Don't worry about that. Go find him." She said. "Now." She added sharply.

He hesitated a moment, then turned and jogged to the stables.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

The search seemed futile in the dark, though it was moving on toward dusk, and Malik doubted the truth of the girl's words. He didn't remember seeing her before, and her accent was unlike anything he'd heard either. Still, something commanded him to obey her, and he found himself out in the blackness of the valley, searching for someone he wasn't even sure was there.

His horse suddenly stumbled, and he halted, peering into the dark. The half moon moved out from behind the clouds, illuminating the massive and sprawling pile of stones. "A rockslide?" He asked aloud, and dismounted. "Altaïr!" He called out, half hoping to hear an answer, half hoping for silence. He waded into the unsteady field of debris. "Altaïr!" He called again. His heart sank at the sound of a soft groan off to his right. He moved toward the noise. "Altaïr," He called more softly. "Is that you?"

"Malik?" The question returned weakly. After a moment, he found the white glow of Altaïr's clothing in the moonlight. He was half buried, and what cloth was exposed, was already staining dark red.

He moved as quickly as he could to remove the larger stones. "What happened?"

"Rockslide." Altaïr said weakly, his voice tinged with a slight gurgling. "Talimar?"

"Already home. Limping, but okay." He removed the last big rock, grunting with the effort, and releasing Altaïr's right arm. Even in the dim light, he could see how bad the damage was. His right arm was a bloody pulp, hardly recognizable as a limb, his legs were crushed, the right one at a strange angle from his hip. His face was bloody, most of the skin and flesh scraped from the right side. Malik frowned. "I'm sorry, Altaïr." He said softly, drawing out a short blade.

Altaïr gurgled out a chuckle. "Saw this coming. Tell Aisling not to mourn."

Malik nodded slowly, then realized the darkness might hide the motion and spoke. "Yes." He knelt, and plunged the blade into the left side of Altair's chest. His body tensed for a moment, but relaxed as he exhaled for the last time.

Staring down at the body, Malik couldn't help but shake his head. "Tell us all not to mourn." He grunted. "What a loss. Just when you finally got over yourself." He scanned for his horse, and clicked his tongue to call it. Slowly, it picked its way through the rockslide, and Malik tossed Altaïr's body over the saddle. He opted to walk.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

Aisling met him at the gates, looking well rested in the late morning light. "Was he dead?" She asked as if inquiring about the fishing conditions.

He balked at her tone, but answered. "No. I took care of it. He told me to tell you not to mourn."

"I wasn't planning on it. Come on." She grabbed the reins from him and tugged the horse toward a small house just inside the gates.

"What are you doing?" Malik almost stopped the horse, but after she gave him a sharp look, he simply followed her, glancing around and noting the emptiness of the market.

"I'm taking him home." She said.

"Not much good that'll do him now."

"More than you think." She flashed a grin over her shoulder. "Help me get him inside." She said as she pushed the door open, and unceremoniously tugged Altaïr's body off the horse.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

Altaïr snapped awake, jerking upright, and colliding face first with Aisling's head. He fell back to the bed holding his now broken nose. "What in the name of-"

"Holy shit!" Malik cut him off with his own confused exclamation.

He blinked through the tears and sat up more slowly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and taking in his two bloody companions. They didn't look wounded, but by his memory, he certainly was. A rockslide if he remembered, and then Malik's blade. He had a good idea where to get answers. "Aisling?" he asked the question only by using her name. She'd backed across the room.

"I told you I refuse to mourn your death, and I meant it." She said quickly, and ducked, falling quickly into old habits and expecting a throwing knife to punctuate her explanation.

"If refusing is all it takes, I should've been doing that a long time ago." Malik exclaimed, then turned to Aisling. "Are you some sort of witch or something?"

"Only if you're stupid enough to think she is." Altaïr answered for her.

"What?"

"Don't ask. It's a long, long story. How do we hide this?" He asked, leaving the question open to either party.

"We don't!" Malik said. "Do you know what this means?"

"No one knows about it." Aisling cut him off before he could work himself up to too many delusions.

"Good." Altaïr said, standing up, wincing at the return of the stiffness in his leg. "No one needs to know."

"What?!" Malik balked, then understanding dawned, and he nodded slowly. "No one needs to know, but now what?"

"Yeah." Altaïr grunted. "Now what?"

"Now what?" She grinned and gave a little bow. "Master?"

He stared blankly at her. She knew even this, and it was a little unsettling. He expected her to answer, not return with another question, so he guessed. "Nothing is true."

"Everything is permitted." She said, smiling broadly at first, but then it faded to something a bit more remorseful. "You've got a show to put on. First act is in Tortosa. You might be able to sneak a ride out of Acre."

"Where's Tortosa?" Malik asked the question first.

"Far to the west." She looked from Malik to Altaïr, staying quiet for a long stretch, seeing that the answer wasn't enough. "There's something important there. A.. chalice." She said at length.

ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï ï

a/n Yeah, this leaves some openings. I have ideas for those openings, but that comes later.

I had to rack my brain to come up with something to kill him. He's got mad skills and the devil's luck, so no man would be killing him. So I had to resort to natural disasters, seemed fair enough.

I figured I'd allow myself this one to be the painfully short chapter. All the other ends were tied, but that one thing not explained, so a little twist chapter. Yay. Hate me if you will.

Later note: I amend the above to say 'this leaves giant honking openings! Openings that the codex fills in, vaguely.' And yes, to those of you that know the reference, speculate this. If rather than killing herself and setting up this big Persian assassination, Aisling had sent him to Tortosa to begin with, it wouldn't be a corpse greeting him, I'm sure, but where would we be if she'd done that? Igh. Where would we be indeed? That would seriously jack up some bloodlines. Further, Tortosa was an area controlled by the English around the time of the third crusade. I figure it's as good a place as any for Adha to have been dragged. It's about as across the sea as I think they got around this time.

This does indeed have a sequel. Directly, it's the game Assassin's Creed: Bloodlines. Pass a little more time, and then you've got Assassin's Creed 2. Pass a little more time and you've got My Drive and My Purpose. This is actually my story, and sort of an aside, but it is this featherfanon here. Pass a little more time and you get another sort of sequel called No Cure so Treat With a Bullet.


End file.
